


Poulette

by JustAMus



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: AU, Abusive Relationships, F/M, Far too many references, Frankensurgery, Horror, Inverted Pygmalion, Monstergirl, Other, References to gore, depersonalisation, self injury, terrible rendition of accents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAMus/pseuds/JustAMus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a dream. Or a nightmare.</p><p>A stowaway in the TF2 base reflects on her situation, and the realities of her relationships with the rest of the team. Where she came from and where she is going starts to fall together as the parts follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sotto Voce

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on TF2Chan, and then on Tumblr.
> 
> Please be aware that this is the very first piece of fanfic I have ever written.

****

I don’t remember all that much. I don’t remember my name, for example. Sometimes when I try the fragments fly around like leaves in a teacup.  
  
I recall being relieved when the van stopped for me on the highway out of town, and the thin one looked out. He said I could hide with them as long as I needed to, and laughed when I hid my head under a blanket in the back. I don’t remember what I was running from, only that I did not want to remember.  
  
The soft one is almost as small as I am, and always comes to me naked. I hear the door open and close, then rustlings of fabric and clinking metal on the stone as he strips while walking. He smells like engine oil and soap, and says nothing until afterward. He likes to touch me everywhere, with both his warm and cold hands. He learned one day that if he used his fingers inside me when I came, my cries poured forth in a torrent of babbling, fluting chirps. Once, when he didn’t stop I fainted, and when I woke up he was gone.  
  
This room has no windows, and the light that shines through the frosted glass in the door can come on at any hour. I wake instantly at this, and can even steal a minute or two to groom myself before the door opens. I don’t remember how I arrived. Or what happened between that day and when I woke up in this room, on a pile of blankets in that corner behind the boxes. They come to me here when they can’t sleep. Many nights can pass where they don’t come, but those are rare. I guess they don’t sleep well.  
  
The big one is the nicest. He almost always asks first, and never goes on top since that first time. He always sneaks in honey for the grain paste that is all I can really eat now, and always brushes my hair while I clean up. He tells me stories in his own language, which is wild and choppy like a ravine in flood. I can hear his smile when he teases me into breathy laughter. He likes me to bite him in little pecks all down his chest and promises one day to show me the moon.  
  
The thin one has only seen me a handful of times. Since he discovered that I could speak with my lips, he has always whispered to me. He likes me to lick him everywhere, and cries when he comes. His accent is lilting and syncopated, but he lives and breathes guilt. He was angry when he found the cold one had removed the nails from my fingers, but it didn’t stop him making me use them inside him to make him fly.  
  
I do remember the first changes. These things on my back, the scarring over my shoulders, the ropy flesh. The cold one cut me again and again to make them work. I’m small but still too big to fly with these wings. The ends drag on the ground if I’m not stretching them out and the tips of the feathers break. Some nights when I can’t sleep either I pace and make songs with the scraping ends on the floor.  
  
The hard one smells like soap, never takes his helmet off and likes to call me ‘Lady’. He is slow but methodical and very, very warm. He talks at me, not to me, as if I were a statue, and pulls at my limbs to pose me like a doll. He strokes my wings and never tries to take my hood off. I’m not sure he even knows I hear him. He always thanks me and brings me a flower. The last time, it was some sort of lily. It died after two nights and the quiet one took it away.  
  
Sometimes I hear noises from the room beyond the door. Voices mainly. When I hear laughter I shiver in my corner. I can usually tell when it’s night time; when it gets quiet and the screams and the explosions stop. They think I can’t hear it, but I can. Even through the thick walls. It is a recurring song every day, varying minimally like ripples on a stream.  
  
The old one smells of cigarettes, cologne and dust. His hands are soft, and he always takes his gloves off. He likes playing with my nipples, tugging at them until they stand up stiff enough to pinch between his fingers when he cups my awkwardly soft breasts. He uses all my openings, favouring one or another from time to time. He likes to bite and suck hard at my skin to mark me. He likes to tell me scandalous things about the others, but I don’t know if any of them are true. Some of them frighten him.  
  
The young one comes to me most often, but doesn’t say much after that first time. His breath always smells sweet and chemical, like some sort of candy. Sometimes he just curls up with me in the corner and holds me. Sometimes he is rough and wanting, and I can hear the tears in his breathing as he shouts his release. He always takes my hood off to see my face, even though the cold one tells him not to. His eyes are full of many things when he looks at me, besides just the anger in his voice.  
  
The cold one frightens me. He insists on my wearing the hood whenever anyone comes to me. He smells of bleach and metal and never takes his gloves off. He always makes me stand for his inspection beforehand, impersonal fingers pinching and tweaking for closer observation while he mutters under his breath. Sometimes he pets me like a beloved cat, and sometimes he hurts me. He delights in my fragile bones and paper thin skin, and is endlessly inventive. He whispers tenderly in my ear when he sends me voiceless into the dark, and when I return I am always covered in drying fluids and new scars.  
  
The singing one comes to me often, his voice seemingly harsh but so very threaded with melody. He smells of smoke and pepper and alcohol, and it makes me sneeze. He keeps his boots on when he mounts me, and laughs heartily while holding me spreadeagled by the jesses on my ankles. He calls me things I don’t understand, and always offers me drinks from his bottle. I learned quickly that that makes me very sick. He once took my hood off, stared at my face then turned away. He has always made me keep it on since. I’m not sure I like him.  
  
I don’t know what else has been done to me. I know that when I am agitated the wings on my back flutter and thrash uncontrollably, and my heartbeat clatters like raindrops on a tin roof, much faster than the hoofbeats I was used to. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I remember being wrapped in blankets and locked in a box at least once.  
  
The quiet one touches me like I am a strange new thing. They smell of smoke and rubber, and make me lie me down on the blankets while they pace around me restlessly. Their gloved hands stroke me like a sheet of paper, then slide curious fingers into every orifice. Sometimes they break off the pacing abruptly, spread my thighs, then lick and suck until I am delirious, fingers in my mouth to choke off my noises. Sometimes I lie there and listen as they lean against a wall, rhythmic wet noises and groans signalling their solitary pleasure.  
  
I don’t remember much. But at least here I’m not the only one without a name.


	2. En brisant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First interview. But by whom?

****

Yeah, I like her. So what? She’s real pretty, especially when it’s kinda dark and you can’t see all the scars. I mean, I dunno what Medic’s got goin’ on in dat weirdo head of his – when he’s got that scary faraway stare I ain’t gunna argue with him, yanno? – puttin’ wings on her an’ all like she’s one o’ his fuckin’ birds. But with his medigun, you’d think he could at least heal her properly without the scars an’ all. She’s covered with ‘em! At least they’re all faded white instead of swollen and red; otherwise she’d look like a fuckin’ candy cane. Small mercies, ha! 

No, I don’t know her name. How the hell would I know? It’s not like anyone ever tells me shit. And around here, if you talk about goin’ ta see her, everyone knows who you’re talkin’ about anyways. 

It’s damned sweet knowin’ I can see her whenever I want, and she’s always smilin’ and happy ta see me. Especially after I started takin’ that fuckin’ stoopid leather helmet-thing offa her head. It’s gotta weigh, like, three or four pound or sumthin’; I always rub her neck after I help her get it off, and it gets her all hot and then she kisses me like she’s tryin’ ta breathe me in and it gets me all hot like bejeezus. I mean, fuck, she’s all bendy an’ she makes dese really hot high noises like she’s tryin’ ta keep it in, an’ gets all tight around me when she comes an’ bites my neck an’ I fuckin’ pound her ‘till I come so hard I fuckin’ see stars, man. 

 

She’s real soft an’ likes ta cuddle afterwards. I don’t blame her fer dat – I’m jus’ amazin’ at everything I do o’ course – and it’s really nice. I’m not some kinda girlyfag kinda dude who talks about feelings and stuff, but I’ll fuckin’ beat your head in if you ever tell anyone what I’m gonna say now. Sometimes y’know, a guy can’t sleep, and I go see her and just.. have her put her arms around me. And I look at her face an’ dose big grey eyes an’ dat sweet dusty birdy smell of her an’ I drift right off right there in dat nest of blankets. Heh. Nest? Like a bird? Heh. Umyeeah. Like I said, brudda? Tell anyone, and I’ll shove my bat right up yo’ ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> En brisant (French) - Shattering


	3. Aveuglant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second interview. Not everyone tells the truth.

Sometimes when ah can’t sleep fer the dreams, I go see her, yeah. So maybe I do, like the rest of the guys. Danged nights get cold out here in the desert. What’s it to ya? 

…Yeah, none taken. I like her, okay? She’s kinda like a good luck charm, maybe like a mascot fer the team. No idea where Medic found her – mebbe she’s one of his, mebbe he found her out there. We ain’t that far from White Sands, and I’ve read those pulp SF novels Demo leaves lying around, fulla aliens and mutants and suchlike. I don’t get either why he tells us ta keep the hood on ‘er either; it’s not like we haven’t all got a few scars here and there, and she’s really pretty anyhow with those huge pale eyes. It’s a pity she seems ta get sick all the time. Medic’s got her in sickbay more often than not, and she doesn’t really like it in there. Can’t say I blame her, his bedside manner’s not the best ah’ve seen. 

She’s real sweet and …enthusiastic, if ya know what ah mean. It’s always good with her, and I like to think she enjoys it too. I love how hot she feels, y’know, inside and out. Medic says her internal temp runs higher than human normal and it’s really nifty how fast sweat dries off. Afterwards I like to rock her to sleep. When she’s all curled up under the feathers she looks no older than one a’ mah own kids. I comb her hair back and croon a little lullaby and sometimes she joins in with a sleepy warbly harmony. She likes music, ya know? I’ve heard her singing to herself many a time, walking past the storeroom door. I always cover her up well with the blankets before I leave. Can’t have our little angel getting cold on us. 

-‘Nyways, lookit me jawin’ away when there’s work ta do. I got sentries ta fix and dispensers ta build. If ya got any more questions, ya’ll can come back later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aveuglant (French) - blinding


	4. Feraille

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interview three. Storytelling is in the blood.

How are you? I am good and we are fighting well every day with few losses. But I am not thinking you are coming to talk over tea and biscuit. You want to ask about molodoĭ tsyplenok, yes? I am expecting you. Was only matter of time before questions come. 

Very long time ago. I remember. Tiny devushka hiding in storeroom, coming out at night to kitchen quick like little mouse, many many months ago. Big dark eyes, long hair blonde like winter wheat. I talk to her, she is sharp and bright like knife. Studying Russkiĭ at kolledzh to talk to Brezhnev to ask for peace not war! I promise not to laugh, and I teach her and give songs to sing. But quiet. Devushka is smart and sad and brave to hide on base with men who fight cowards every day! Then one day is gone. Find torn skirt with blood. Sniper says taken by dingo, is very sad. Whole team is sad for few days, then forget. Go back to fighting. Then Medik spend many weeks working, sleeping in lab. Tell team, have present for good job. Find molodoĭ tsyplenok in sickbay storeroom. Rest of team say they not know where she is from, but I know. They think that my words are slow so thoughts are also slow, but they are wrong. 

I always take leather hat off. First time, I see her face and I know. First time, I hurt her and am very sad. She can only make noise like birds, crying is like zyablik, little.. Finch, is word. I think. Medik is do bad things to devushka, and I tell him, many times. Even the hat and the leg strap, is like his bad dreaming, I say. But he gives look and shouts at me with Ubersaw to go, so I go. What can I do against vrach Medik? And now with wings she is like bird in cage, will die if free. I am gentle for tsyplenok, I try not to hurt her now. I tell story sometimes in Russkiĭ, about Sadko, and Ded Moroz, and I think she remembers. Tilts head like ptitsa and blinks big eyes now silver like owl. Sometimes if I am lucky I get smile I remember, white like new moon. I bring honey and sugar for her kasha, and I brush her winter wheat hair. And maybe new blanket to keep warm. 

Is not much, I know. But is something. I try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feraille (French) - Scraps or leavings, usually of discarded metal or shavings.
> 
> molodoĭ (Russian) - Young, adolescent, post-pubescent.
> 
> tsyplenok (Russian) - Chick, baby bird. Often domestic chickens.
> 
> devushka (Russian) - Young woman, post adolescence. Usually unmarried.
> 
> Russkiĭ (Russian) - The Russian language.
> 
> zyablik (Russian) - Finch. 
> 
> vrach (Russian) - Doctor.
> 
> Sadko (Russian) - Traditional folk hero, something of a cross between Robin Hood and Sindbad the Sailor.
> 
> Ded Moroz (Russian) - Old Man Winter. Something of a grimmer Saint Nick.
> 
> ptitsa (Russian) - Songbird.
> 
> kasha (Russian) - Cooked buckwheat groats. Often gruel or porridge.


	5. Critère de Griffith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interview four. Reality depends on viewpoint.

You requested this meeting, RECRUIT. I am in the middle of patrol, so make it SNAPPY. I have things to do! Rockets to polish and boots to FEED to THOSE SCUMBA- 

What do you mean, her? You WILL ADDRESS HER AS BEFITS HER RANK, RECRUIT! The LADY JUSTICE is SWEET, and PURE, and ON OUR SIDE. We are HER SWORD and her SHIELD. Though blind, her HELM will SHINE before us, her WINGS will carry us to VICTORY and HER SONG will ECHO over the sunrise. Like at Iwo Jima. YOU KNOW IWO JIMA, DON’T YOU, MAGGOT? HER SCARS are marks of VALOUR, signs symbolic of our SUFFERING for her CAUSE. We are LUCKY to have her, RECRUIT. She has manifested and BESTOWED upon us her OWN WHITE LIMBS as our REWARD. Her presence bodes WELL for our SUCCESS! Capturing all the intelligence and BLOWING our enemies to BLOODY SMOKING GOBBETS! Because SUN TZ- 

WHAT. Oh. Um. RIGHT. When I go to see the LADY JUSTICE, I make sure everything is CLEAN and and parade ready. A GOOD SOLDIER ALWAYS KEEPS HIS KIT READY! I’ll even SHAVE! Shave and POLISH EVERYTHING! And I always fall out after battle to bring her a flower. Ahem. Ladies like flowers. The last one? I marched out sixteen miles to find, and carried back in my canteen. THE BEST MILITARY MINDS ARE FLEXIBLE! AND IMPROVISE! And ARE NOT DEFEATED IN ADVERSITY. We are here to BALANCE her SCALES! 

Now, boy, you’ll give HER RESPECT, or I will ask Sargeant Shovel here to have a real in-depth-RESPECTFUL CONVERSATION with your BRAIN PAN! DO YOU HEAR ME? DIS-MISSED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Critère de Griffith (French) - Griffith’s Criterion, a seminal equation in stress mechanics, predicting fracture propagation in brittle materials.


	6. La Fenice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interview five. Cleanliness is far from godliness.

Hallo. Yes, I do go see her, like the others do. What? Wait, let me just take this off. Can you hear me now? Good. 

Like I was saying, I do visit her, like the others do. Not often though. She’s always there, and always the same. I like to look at her, all glimmering pure white. She’s so pale I don’t even have to swap out the dark lens outserts when I walk in, y’know? I touch her all over and trace the scars everywhere they go. They’re so different from mine. Hers are mostly all silvery and faded, and she’s so tiny and thin that on her they look like frost on the windows in winter, only big, like climbing vines on a wall. She seems to like it, anyhow, from the little noises she makes. I guess we’re the only ones she gets to see, the only ones here to touch her. So of course she likes us. Even me. 

I remember Medic coming into the mess with that shit-eating grin, slapping his gloves into his hand, to tell us that his latest up-all-night project was a gift from him and the Microphone Bitch for a Job Well Done. Hell, you could hear the capitals all crunchy in his Kraut accent. We all rushed in when he threw the storeroom door open and there she was sitting on a dusty table, wings all rustly and shimmering pearly grey. Everyone speechless staring for a long minute, before Scout breaks the spell with a whoop about how ‘we got a chick now’. Medic shoos us back out, closes the door and gives us a big lecture about rules. I remember zoning out; I couldn’t stop seeing her in my head, all pale and clean like some sort of angel, so different from us with our oilstains and powder burns and grubby nails. Why do you think I keep the gloves on? I even try to get clean rags to replace her old ones, when I remember. Occasionally I’ve seen her trying to wash them in the water bucket. 

Oh, I keep that hood on her head. It’s a funny looking thing. Together with the ankle jesses she’s always got on, it makes her look like the falcons I saw at a Ren Faire once. Guess that’s Medic for you. He gets some weird ideas in his little dungeon of a sickbay. I don’t know if she can see through it, though I know she can hear fine. It doesn’t look like it gets in her way much, anyway. And to be honest with you, I’m not sure I want to see her face. Maybe it’s like mine; maybe hers is scarred far worse and that’s why they have to make special food for her, and why she can’t talk properly. Or maybe it’s not like the rest of her; maybe it’s perfect and beautiful and terrible. I’m not sure if I wanna find out, or to see it either way. So I never ask her to take it off. Actually, I don’t really talk to her. She doesn’t seem to want me to. Engie says she likes to sing, but I’ve never heard her doing it. 

…Um. Can I have my lighter back now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La Fenice (Italian) – The Phoenix. Also an opera house in Venice that was burned down multiple times, and successfully rebuilt in both 1837 and 1996.


	7. Acciaccatura del niente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude one, and a break in the interviews.
> 
> Is there a catalyst for change?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ”..I don’t like this music. Let’s change the beat.”  
> — Jean-Baptiste Emmanuel Zorg, Fifth Element

The room is almost the same. I am used to the spaces changing as boxes and cases are loaded and unloaded around me. The burned out bare bulb that hangs from the vaulted ceiling is now visible, however, in the light from the tiny window far above. I don’t remember there being a window there before. Things must have changed yet again and I shrug away a prickle of mental disquiet. Maybe I was moved while asleep. It has happened before. Better than the box. 

The light is watery and dim, but just enough that I can fumble through the pile of blankets so I can look at the gift that was left for me. 

The dusty paper bag is crinkled and soft with wear as I pull out a small book. The cover is long gone, and the edges of the pages are stained and buckled from smoke and water, the binding cracked and shedding crumbs of old glue. The smell of dusty wood and pressed flowers. Something stirs in my throat as I carefully open the pages. 

Pictures. No, drawings. Of children. And a dog. And a ball. My eyes ache – probably the unaccustomed light, the effort of focusing – as I painstakingly piece together the letters and numbers in the speech bubbles, words springing ex nihilo into my mind. ( _piano. beagle. Red. Baron._ ) It quickly gets easier, and before I know it, I have finished. And for no impulse I can name, I flip it right over and start leafing through it again from the beginning. And again. 

And again. Faster and faster. 

( _bird. blanket. Beethoven._ ) 

Fingertips are bleeding again, leaving bloody smudges on the yellowed paper( _umber? fawn. no, ecru._ ). It seems harder to read, somehow. Oh, because my hands are shaking. It’s getting cold. And I can’t seem to bring my eyes into focus. Face feels hot and cold and tight, and I’m breathing hard. There’s a heaviness under my breastbone, burning where my atonal heart flutters like a trapped ( _me. you. us._ ) thing. I knuckle gracelessly at a tickle where thick scars stretch over cheekbone and into the hollow beneath and my hand comes away wet. Drying fingers aimlessly on the edge of a wing, heedless of the smears ( _no, carmine. scarlet too pink. crimson too bright._ ) I’m leaving on the crushed grey ( _dun. pearl. dove. silver. slate._ ) feathers with a too-tight grip. Dry mouth. A ringing in my ears. 

The book falls, trailing ghosts of itself. Gracelessly, I follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> acciaccatura (Italian) - bruise, crush injury. In musical notation, a form of ornamental flourish or grace note. 
> 
> dal niente (Italian) - out of nothingness, out of silence. In musical notation, a sudden phrase that is not foreshadowed.


	8. Gnomon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude two. 
> 
> Correspondence and connection. 
> 
> Technology proceeds apace.

To: Miss R. M. Pauling   
Senior Executive Assistant 

Re: Adjunct request to existing assignment 

Dear Miss Pauling 

Always nice to hear from you, Rhonda darling. It is good to hear that you find yourself in good health. I hope that circumstances are going well; how are your other pets doing? It is always a pleasure to assist you in your endeavours. 

It is quite unfortunate to find that your previous intervention seems to have spawned further …complications. Sometimes in-house solutions can seem deceptively attractive. As I mentioned to your superiors when they contemplated operations in their current format, excessive sentiment is a characteristic quirk of mercenaries. I did advise the use of indentured staff at the time, but they decided on siting it all in this regrettably individualistic country. Let me just reiterate my previous offer of access to our organisation’s pool of subjects – impeccable plasm lines and ironclad imprinting, nothing but the best for you, my dear. 

It will of course be no trouble to extend the current assignment to cover a complete clean-up of the situation. However, I cannot guarantee the utmost discretion if the local Spies interfere with our Agent. Needless to say, it will be your own responsibility to ensure that your lady Supervisor does not learn of your other fascinating projects. The standard consultant rate contracts will apply for the interim, with additional wetwork stipends and rebates for costs incurred. I shall forward the addendum to you for your consideration as soon as our Legal are ready. 

 

I remain, as always, your Humble Servant 

S. R. C. Marshall   
Marshall, Carter and Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gnomon – The part of a sundial that casts the shadow. From the Ancient Greek, meaning “indicator”, “one who discerns,” or “that which reveals.” Also indicative of self-referentialism in mathematical and literary theory.


	9. Délai chaîne de fusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interview six. 
> 
> On perception and tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the accent shown is as close to Valve-accurate as I can make it. That is, an unholy mixture of Glaswegian and Cornish, with the occasional bit of Mancunian slang. The folk legends are largely Irish, sadly. I had trouble with the research for this one.

Guid mornin’. Ye look surprised tae see me up so early faur a blether. Ah’m no stranger tae irregular hours; when y’ve done everythin’ from cleanin’ skyscrapers tae demolishin’ lighthooses, ye get good at showin’ oop when y’re called f’r. Cuppa tea? ‘Ere, have a biscuit. One o’ Sniper’s stash, I think ‘e calls ‘em “Zacks” o’ summat. Ah won’t tell if ye won’t, aye? 

Right. Aboot our wee Fionnuala. Fuh-nell-ah, yus. Ye’ve seen herself, I take it? Sae tiny, but fierce. Jes’ the way I like tha lasses. I was one o’ the first tae gae see her, an’ I made the mistake o’ pullin’ out a feather. An accident, it was. It was dark, an’ I jes wanted tae get a better look at one. She almost broke m’wrist with her great grey wings. That’s when I took tae callin’ her after the swans of Lir, y’ken? Nivver piss off a swan! I din’t think she meant tae do it, but, ‘cause she clung tae me an’ made all these whimpery flutey noises and hugged m’hand between those lovely white bewbs o’ hers. It’s noo wonder Medic’s taken tae makin’ her wear th’ hood an’ jesses; she’s plenty wick enough furra crowd o’ hawks! An’ those jesses, they make guid handholds, y’ken? Heh. 

Aye, I know herself’s covered in scars. So’m I, an’ so’s the rest of us, y’know! ‘S not like we came tae this job with peel like babies’ bums. On her they look guid, tho’. All like tha’ lacy stuff that th’ lasses wear. An’ ‘cause they’re all silvery, when we’re sportin’ aboot they gleam and flash in tha gloamin’. She seems tae like it wit’ me well enow, an’ leaves little marks all ova’ me. I’ve taught her a few songs, like soom by The Corries, an’ she whistles along wi’ me. But she doesna’ seem tae git the bits in Gàidhlig at all. An’ she jes’ cocks her heid like on’a me Nan’s auld pullets. She’s a wee bit spooky when she does tha’, I reck’n. But then, anythink tae dae wit’ tha Medic’d be more than a mite touched, in any case. Himself’s a’ways a-doin’ things in th’ lab I’m wiser than tae ask aboot. Tha’ cacklin’ o’ his inna middle o’ the night – brrr! – makes a body try not tae think too hard on it. 

Oncet I went tae see her an’ walked in when she was washin’ some rags in th’ water bucket. With her grey feathers a’ swirled aroun’ her like windin’ sheets, the very image o’ a bean nighe – I tell ye Gawd’s truth, I almost had a heart attack reet thar, ha! But lemme tell ye summat strange furra minute. Jes’ a body tae another. A long tiym ago, more’n a year I trow, we had a lass hidin’ on tha base wit’ us ferra coupla’ weeks. Bonnie thing, hitchin’ a ride faer th’ town, a’ tall an’ danger’us curves, like Heavy says, “Pull many ploughs,” d’y’ken? Ach, we had many a chat aboot uisge beatha an’ civil rights in this backward land – noo offense – before she ran away an’ got takkin an’ kilt’ by summat in th’ desert. Verra sad, an’ I miss her of a night sometimes y’knoo. So anyways I once tried takin tha’ leather hood off of herself one night ah went tae see her. And th’ wiy she tilted her heid an’ shone those great moon eyes at me, ‘twas like I saw ae ghost o’ tha’ lass in tha’ profile for a moment. Then I blinked an’ it was gone. I’m no’ daft, ‘tis no’ like they’re anything alike, an’ I know very well th’ lass is long gone, but I felt th’ chill f’r days after. Nivver took th’hood off her ag’in nor since. Our Fionnuala’s a sweet wee thing, but sometimes I feel th’ sport’s lost a certain spark f’ me, ‘specially if a body finds herself weepin’ inna corner like she’s bin lately. Puir thing. I keep offerin’ her some o’ me private stash, ‘t certainly helps me forget m’own woes, y’knoo? But f’ nowt, an’ Ah’m oot o’ ideas. 

…Och weel, I need m’self a drink noo, I think. Y’want one? Might go well wit’ tha’ biscuit. No? Y’r loss, laddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> délai chaîne de fusion (French) – Delay chain-fusing. Pyrotechnics term in which more than one item is linked by a slow fuse, to be ignited in series. Notable in that once initially lit, the operator has no more control over the ignition of the items. 
> 
> Bean nighe (Scots Gaelic) – psychopomp spirit, similar to a banshee. Appear as an emaciated old woman in graveclothes washing bloodstained sheets in the stream. Signifies the death of the viewer or one close to them. 
> 
> Gàidhlig – The Gaelic language, specifically Scots Gaelic. 
> 
> Uisge beatha (Scots Gaelic) – Water of Life, referring to whisky.


	10. Totgeschwiegen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interview seven. 
> 
> On plans and blueprints, and jaundiced eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All respect to history and tradition. I tried to step on no toes for this one.

I believe you vish to discuss my vork, ja? So. Vhat do you zhink of my little creation? I have been vorking on her for a long time now. I confess I had started with the zhought of making her eine taube like ze others, but ach, her temperament! I had to declaw her early on, after she managed to inflict some scratches zat got infected. The medigun does not vork as vell on infection as it does on frank injury, of course. It is strange however, zat vonce ze nail plate is removed, ze nail bed did not thicken or callus; zat vas most unexpected. Her system has tolerated ze orbital implants much more readily – of course you have seen for yourself, Herr Klinge. I zhink I can be justifiably proud of the job I have done vith meine kleine turmfalke. Vhile the wing grafts did not proceed qvite as I hoped, the endocrine changes are coming along quite vell, if I do say so myself. And I have also achieved fine control of the osteoclast cultu– 

Ahem. Of course, you did not come here to discuss the finer points of ze surgical procedure, did you? I do refer to her as my little turmfalke. Just a small conceit, if you like. Like ze lederkappe and jesses I had fabricated for her. It is not as if she is who she was, to be called what she vas called, after all. I did not have much to do with her before, when she was creeping around the base at night and hiding in a storeroom by day. For someone who was meant to be hiding avay, she spent a lot of time talking to the rest of the team! It vas very amusing to vatch her evade ze frantic overtures of ze Scout, I must say. She came into the sickbay once or tvice vhen I vas up late mit papervork, I suppose, and we conversed on recipes for hamantaschen und kuchen, of all things. I do have some small ability vith ze pastry-making; I learned at meine Oma’s knee. A man should be able to feed himself more zan just sanviches und cornflakes, ja? In any case, she did not get underfoot, and I hardly noticed when she disappeared from ze base.

It was only some time later, after some zhinking ,that I decided to exert my considerable skills, I must admit. I am far too busy to simply make empty plots like some dummkopf from der Ahnenerbe! Der Spitzel arrived vone evening vith her unconscious body und strong suggestions from Die Hexe that ve “resolve the problem of her presence”, if not her existence as such. I had at ze time found myself with some considerable spare time on my hands, as well as noted the recent murmurings among ze team. So in a stroke of inspiration I decided on ze elegant solution of simply recycling her for my next project und boosting morale amongst ze men in vone stroke. Vaste not, vant not, as zhey say. Ach, how she fought vhen she voke from sedation. I have not seen ze like since Scout huffed ze outgassing vapours from Demoman’s alembic. Even zhough ze Engineer helped me adjust ze sensory deprivation chamber, still I nearly exhausted my stocks of neuroactives and narcoanalytics on her in ze ensuing veeks. Pharmaceutical amnesia is usually impermanent, as you vell know. I regard ze resulting derealisation und depersonalisation as some of my finest vork. And her maintenance is easy zhrough mere dietary supplementation.

I have seen to her training myself. She has showed no hesitation in performing in any vay requested, vith a pronouced degree of engagement und vith increased bonding criticality. I do remember to put her zhrough her paces from time to time, und I have heard no complaints from ze ozhers. Lately, her presentation has seemed somevhat erratic, so adjustments in ongoing dosage have been necessary. Unfortunately, ze extensive musculoskeletal modifications I have made have also resulted in certain …physical limits. Alzhough I did not build in planned obsolescence, I admit zhat I vill feel some slight regret at her senescence. But zhen, sometimes vone has to make sacrifices for vone’s art, ja?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahnenerbe (German) – German think tank founded in 1935 by Himmler, among others, to research the anthropological and cultural history of the Aryan race. Often strayed into pseudo-mysticism, but not as badly as the Thule Society.
> 
> Die Hexe (German) – The witch or harridan
> 
> Hamantaschen (Yiddish) – “Haman’s hats” – triangular pastries, usually filled with jam or preserves. Traditionally eaten at the Jewish festival of Purim.
> 
> Klinge (German) – knife or blade
> 
> Kuchen (German) – cakes and baked goods
> 
> Lederkappe (German) – leather hood or cap
> 
> Der Spitzel (German) – Spy. Connotations of informer, stool pigeon, traitor.
> 
> Taube (German) – dove or pigeon
> 
> Totgeschwiegen (German) – hushed, quieted. Connotations of suppression and cover-ups, often with precise violence.
> 
> Turmfalke (German) – kestrel, one of the smallest birds of prey.


	11. Bissen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude three.
> 
> Catalysis progresses with deterioration, perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for self harm, gore and mutilation.

I can’t stop moving. My clattering heart has sped to almost a hum, and my lungs ache. I have no appetite, and eat maybe every two or three daynights. I scrape the dish into the slops bucket in the far corner. I am always drinking; my mouth is constantly dry with nausea. 

I can see now, even in this dim light. I can see what has changed. I remember being taller. I remember when I didn’t have these scaled, leathery shins like greaves. I remember when I could walk with my soles flat on the floor, not this awkward teetering on the balls of my feet, knees bent and shaking. These two heavy breasts drag at my breathing, miraculously unscarred islands on my laced and scribbled body, malign globular jokes on this traitor emaciated frame. I don’t know if I hate them; I try to forget them. 

I can remember things I wish I didn’t. Cut and cut and cut again, drugged half-awake in the swirling, sparking clouds of vapour. Thankfully the voices come and go. (“ _..Nie wieder allein, nie wieder frei sein.._ ”) My nails were removed like a housewife would peel an onion. Used and used and used and thrown away, an empty skin full of static and screams. 

My mind shies away from remembering the God Box. I remember waking after the first time, drinking in the taste of salt and bitter almonds. Mouths and words I could not hear. Moving in slow motion; drowning in oil and white light. Blood heat and fluttering steel fingers. I dare not sleep, even if I wanted to; h( _a_ )unting, recurrent visions of a huge tree draped in ( _alien_ ) bones, and the pitiless bright ( _blue_ ) eyes of a brace of great, black birds. 

I’ve tried to tear apart the book, to throw it away, but every time I touch or even look at it, I start crying. I have hidden it in a crack between the wall and some shelves, so I do not need to see it. I have not seen the grey one who gifted it more than that once. My skin feels hot, then cold. I fling myself at the wall and flail, slamming again and again on rough cut stone. Last week, I kept at it until bones shattered and grated, until I fainted. When I woke and looked up, the broken skin had left feathered wing prints. My fingers are bleeding again. I’m painting with them, as high on the walls as I can reach. Lines and shapes and figures. I’m approaching ( _geometric_ ) true circles; I made one yesterday and couldn’t stop looking at it. 

I am creating beauty in this place. 

The last time the big one came, he wrinkled his nose at the scent, and walked out again. I heard voices roaring in argument while I hid. He returned with the vapour ( _gun_ ) device, playing its sparks over where I lay. The tickle of knitting tissue ( _ligaments_ ) left me with a vague sense of disappointment. He bathed my back for long minutes to rinse off the dry blood and crooned a story of a fox, a rabbit and a rooster. He just held me, and left without using me. Sometimes a new thing; sometimes he comes now with the thin one, and they just sit and wordlessly stroke my hair and my hands and feet, until I fall into blessed dreamless sleep. 

The loud one doesn’t come any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bissen (German) - Morsel, bite, mouthful.


	12. Coup d’œil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interview eight.
> 
> On origins, sources, and sentiment.

Yeah, I remember driving her back to the base. Fine, strappin’ sheila like that, any bloke’d stop fer that big smile, and no mistake. Picked her up on the side of the road a little ways outta town, said she was headin’ over East. We got ta chattin’ in the cab up front and before I know it, I find meself offerin’ ta let her lob in and bunk down in one a’ the storerooms on the base fer a few. I mean, s’not like she’d be around long, and she swore up an’ down that the blue she was dodgin’ wasn’t anything ta do with the coppers. Guess I’m a bit of a soft touch fer charity cases, eh? ‘Specially those that ain’t shy about pretendin’ not ta spot me havin’ a bit of a perve at their curvy bits. Bloody funny it was, when we got in, the looks on their faces! Like they’d never seen a pair before, much less attached to a livin’, breathin’ girlie. Scout practically dropped like a rock; I reckon all the blood left his head in one go, the silly dill. The poor girl had to keep fobbing him off, and that bastard Frenchman got all huffy when she turned him down too. And as fer Truckie and Solly, bloody hell. As if the blushing an’ stammering weren’t bad enough, the helmets full of flowers that kept randomly turning up in the kitchen were just priceless. Like when I overheard them arguing over whose turn it was to guard th’ showers so Scout wouldn’t sneak in on her. Heh. 

She liked nothin’ more than ta sit with Heavy or Demo, yarning of an evening over a stubby or two. Her impression of Medic spitting the dummy was hilarious. I think I pissed m’self laughing once or twice. She would listen all night ta stories of back home, and I swear it was a near thing the next day fer us more than once, the number of times we stayed up late blabberin’ away. A really sweet girl, y’know? And not bad with the throwing stick, for a beginner. I think the leaves out back are still feelin’ it. Anyway, so after a coupla weeks the sheila was a bit sloppy about hidin’ away, and the Slapper Upstairs spotted her on cam and got her little typist ta ring up and let us know that she’s ropeable about it. Demo managed ta talk her down, saying the sheila’d be gone soon, and the Boss shut up about it right enough. That poor secretary – ya gotta feel fer her sometimes, having ta put up with such a right whinger for a boss. She sometimes rings up for a chat; nice girl. Our sheila however, caught wind of the call and it damned near scared her white. She did a runner, heading back out towards the highway. Next thing I know, the Spy’s draggin’ me off ta track her down fer the Dragon Lady, dribbling some shit about how the sheila’s not allowed ta talk about us to any civilians, and I do my nut. Didn’t want ta have a bar of “disappearing her” or nothing, I mean, she’s just a kid in uni ferchrissakes. So the bloody Frenchman fed me some crap about getting Medic ta give her some sort of Forget Juice before we let her go off again, and I believed him, like a fuckin’ dickhead. So we found her, knocked her out, and he took her to the sickbay. 

Had no idea what the bloody madman had planned fer her, I swear. Dead set. I can’t even believe that I forgot all about her in there after a week, goin’ back to the fighting like always. Didn’t even twig when Medic showed up with a faceful of bloody scratches an’ muttering in German. And when he took us in to show her off, I knew. She’s sitting naked on the table, and even with that stupid helmet thing, and the wings, and the scars and everything (an’ I know this is going ta make me sound like some pervy sicko), I knew. The Scout starts hollerin’ about getting’ his rocks off, and I actually feel downright sick to my stomach. It’s all I could do ta stand there and not punch him out right then and there. I mean, we should’ve known. I should’ve known. We’ve all seen the things he does to those pigeons he says he loves so much. 

I do go in to see her, even though it fair breaks me heart every time. I mean, it’s my fault she’s here, and my fault he turned her into that thing. Every time, she’s still sweet and warm and lovin’, like before. I like ta think she remembers me, you know? In spite of everything that bloody wanker has done to her. Remember those scratches? That freak pulled out her fingernails just because she got in a lucky shot! He even butchered her throat so she can only make bird sounds. But I found she can still whisper so we talk some that way. I don’t even want ta think what else she’s gone through. Heavy was tellin’ me the other day that it’s getting worse, that he went to see her and she was all broken bones and blood. He actually snatched the medigun off Medic to give her a dose. He was just going to leave her lying there – Oh gawd. Hang on. Give us a mo’. 

Yeah, mate. ’M okay. I just got somethin’ in my eye, ‘s all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coup d’œil (French) – A blow or strike to the eye (literal), a glimpse (figurative). Refers in a military setting to the ability to discern at a glance the tactical disadvantages of a given terrain. Considered an important skill in artillery troops and snipers.


	13. Rheopexy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of the end, for bonds, relationships, and the status quo.

The carefully folded copy of Le Monde was all of a week old by the time it reached his hands, but was no less precious for being a window into the recent past. Spy turned the pages leisurely, carefully keeping the creases razor-straight as he luxuriated in once more being immersed in his native language. _Those cosseted students are rioting again. And over mixed-gender dorms, of all things. It will be over in another week or so; de Gaulle will never stand for it_ \- A knocking at the door. Assertive, and barely short of being a hammered demand. No chance they were likely to go away. Sighing inwardly, the Spy closed his paper and went to the door, which opened just as he reached it, revealing the grizzled face of the Sniper.

“Well, Sniper? What compelling reason do you ‘ave for disturbing me at this time? It is late, and we all have to get some sleep if we are to fight tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know. Was wonderin’ if we could have a word or two with ya, if y’ don’t mind.” Sniper’s expression was even more shuttered than usual.

“But of course, if it is so important that you could not wait. Come in.” Spy swung the door further open, to see the looming shape of the Heavy in the corridor outside. Curious.

They entered, the Russian as always moving more quickly and silently than his build would suggest, and stood awkwardly between the wardrobe and the bed. The Spy sat back down on his chair, slouching carelessly. “Gentlemen. What is it you want to discuss?”

Sniper rubbed the end of his nose pensively. “We need to do something about our girl. She’s not in a good way.”

“How so? Last time I visited La Princesse Perdue, she seemed fine. More than fine, in fact. “ Spy allowed the corner of his mouth to lift in lascivious nostalgia. “If she is ill, it is a simple matter to bring her to ze attention of ze Medic. “

“No. Is much worse than just sick. “ Heavy interjected deliberately, brow furrowed with worry. “I saw lying in own blood and vomit. I use Medigun. She has no Respawn.” Heavy said little off the field, as a rule, and eyes widened around the room at this uncharacteristically long speech; it was as if the wardrobe behind him had spoken.

“Your concern is touching, ‘sieurs.” Spy’s tone was coolly sardonic as he leaned back in the chair. “Zis is not ze first flawed project of the Medic’s. Doubtless she will not be ze last either. If compassion truly is a factor, it would be a simple thing to cleanly put La Poulette out of ‘er mise-“

Spy suddenly found himself tipped to near horizontal in his chair, the tendons in his thighs screaming. The edge of a kukri materialised at his throat and a pair of slitted hazel eyes behind amber lenses glared into his own. “Her. Name. Is. Carol. And she is _not_ your little princess whore,” hissed Sniper from between gritted teeth. “She should _never_ have been brought back to base. “

Spy felt the warmth as the skin of his neck parted slightly. Breathlessly, he choked out, “And whose fault is it zat she came here at all, mon ami..?” The kukri vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, the Spy thudding back down to verticality with a jarring clatter as the Sniper turned away abruptly. “There really is no need for zese theatrics, Jarman. If you feel so strongly about ‘ow I name La Fille, you only had to mention it, “ Spy murmured blandly, hiding his annoyance as he rubbed at his neck, examining the smear of red on his fingers.

Sniper spun back round, eyes suspiciously bright. “Aw, shut the fuck up about the name thing, Spook. Look, I know it’s my fault, orright? I brought her here. But she wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t lied like a bastard. Did you bloody deliver her to that _butcher_ with a bow around her neck?!” He spat and waved a hand in the vague direction of the medlab, voice cracking at the last.

Stung, Spy exploded out of the chair to prod Sniper hard with a finger to the chest. “Do not seek to blame me for zis, Bushman! I knew as little as you did about ze Medic’s plans for her. I thought also that she would be given amnesiacs and taken to town. I can only guess what demon whispers zese warped ideas into ‘is ear, to pervert God’s creation so!”

Sniper slapped away the prodding hand before Spy could do it again. His lips thinned and twisted in self loathing. “So you’re tryin’ ta dodge the blame for this one too. How fuckin’ typical-“ A huge hand landed on both Spy and Sniper’s shoulders and prised them apart with irresistable yet gentle strength. They were reduced to grimacing at each other from opposite sides of the tiny room like petulant children, past the watchful bulk of Heavy.

“Enough. “ The rumbled word fell like a boulder into a pond. “Medic did bad thing to leetle devushka. Medic will fix.” His jaw set like granite. “Has gone on too long. No more fighting like babies.”

“And how are you planning to get him to ‘make it all better’, _Gospodin_?” shot Spy mockingly, still resentful at all the manhandling. “Are you planning to send him a fruit basket?”

“No. “Heavy’s fists clenched, the glove leather creaking ominously. Sniper smiled viciously at Spy’s sudden shiver and at the implacable set of Heavy’s shoulders. “Doktor will not say no. I am _sure_ of this. “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rheopexy – Materials science terminology used to describe strain, flow and viscosity behaviour. Denotes a fluid that increases in viscosity when subjected to shear forces. This can result in a liquid momentarily behaving like a brittle, friable solid. Examples include latex or cornstarch slurries.
> 
> Gospodin (Russian) – Respectful form of address to adult males, more formal than the English “Mister”. Considered archaic.


	14. Strange Attractors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling from a pedestal can cause some fairly significant injury. Especially if it was you who put yourself up there.

A chipped beaker splintered in the stained steel sink, as a tray full of soiled metal instruments was dumped on top of it with a crash, the tinkle of breaking glass going unheeded. The omnipresent cooing of doves had stopped, and the silence was oppressive like an indrawn breath. At times like these even the birds kept watch, to see which way to dodge.

Medic was angry. Angry and frustrated, to the point of embedding forceps in the wall, point-first. It had all started because those misbegotten _dummkopfs_ had dared to question his abilities, his qualifications. And after all he had done for them, all the little gift projects he had slaved over! When the Engineer had come to him privately, asking for help in securing the labyrinthine sewers against incursion, where his sentries could not reach, he had provided. His lips thinned cruelly in a smirk of pleasurable nostalgia as he recalled the poetic use of the opposing Spy for raw materials; what better use for a thief than to catch another? Medicine for him was about fusing poetry with Science. The beauty of transmutation was ecstasy and agony and transcendence.

So when the Sniper and the Spy had confronted him in this, his sanctuary, the trespass was worsened by their accusations. Not only had they questioned his motives and hurled gross insults, but slyly implied that his skills were fit only for breaking, not making. To make matters worse, they had brought along the giant Russian, who did nothing but stand and grunt like paid muscle, cracking his knuckles in some parody of a physical threat. Let him see if he got within _sniffing_ distance of an Ubercharge anytime soon. As if any of them could have done better, as if any other doctor would have the inspiration, the sheer genius to create fantasy out of whole cloth, to craft meat toys for the ungrateful passel of brats he had to call his teammates! Medic grunted with effort as he hurled a warped bonesaw, teeth clogged with dried blood and tissue, into the sink to follow the other implements, then stripped off his latex gloves.

The sudden spurt of rage died as quickly as it had come, leaving Medic exhausted with its passing. He sat down on one of the laboratory stools, scrubbing tiredly at his face, ignoring the stickiness of drying blood on his forearms. He looked up at the viewport on the incubation tank – hastily and grimly rejigged from the sensory deprivation chamber it had been, by the harried Engineer – watching the his little Turmfalke. She floated, curled foetally, the nerves and ligaments trailing ragged from the bone stumps where he had broken off her wings, pale hair hanging like horsetail cloud in the currents from the circulation pump. She had fought when he had come for her, like she had not fought in many, many months, and he had been forced to sedate her with the syringe gun. Her gaunt face lay slack under the breathing mask, deceptively serene. Her resected fingers and flayed palms waved in the currents in an uneasy mimicry of gesture, the overgrown blood vessels fanning out like tendrils from the raw tips.

It was not going well, Medic was forced to admit. His Turmefalke had been his most ambitious project yet, a twisted Galatea he had created to be pliant and joyous in her servitude. Every line of her had been meticulously moulded to design, and here he was destroying his artwork. He had teared up in the reconstruction of her legs, removing the graceful scaling, grounding her flatfooted to earth again with tendon implants. He had sobbed when he had removed her shining owl eyes and replaced them with her own prosaic, peasant-brown orbs. As if to add insult to the injury of engaging in this destruction of his glorious creation, the fact was that it was proving downright impossible. It had all seemed so easy, so smoothly in his recollection, when borne along on the wings of inspiration. But his hands now felt clumsy and awkward as he dismantled structures, planing back scar tissue in sheets and ropes.

At the beginning, he had taken the bit furiously in his teeth. The first regrafts had gone well, but the regeneration bath had done its work too well, her healing tissues overgrowing into puckered, wattled tumours. The Medigun’s vapours would only have exacerbated this, so he had painstakingly excised every growth with his own blunting scalpel, day after day. The chemotherapy and adjustments he had made to the tank had other effects too, sending her metabolism into free-fall. He had been battling infection in the bedraggled Turmfalke for the weeks he had been working to return her corpus to mere clay. It seemed as though every other day he was racking his brain to invent new cocktails of antibiotics and worse to preserve her collapsing immune system. Medic sighed and rose from his moment of rest, tossing the soiled gloves – more to keep his nails free of debris than anything else – into the incineration bin next to the sink. With easy familiarity and without turning, he opened the glass-fronted fridge and lifted out three vials from their accustomed spot, preparing a transfer syringe for administration to the shunt port installed under his Turmfalke’s thin collarbone, via a line through the tank’s port.

In this his inner sanctum, Medic in his ongoing exhaustion allowed himself to be less vigilant, more cavalier in his methods. This reliance on habit, on the way things always were, would most likely be the reason why he did not notice the carefully resealed vials in the boxes, not even a mere hair out of place. Why he did not notice the tiny smudges around the gauges of the regeneration tank, or the slight alteration in the tint of the liquid in the tank, that could not be attributed to the fluorescent lamps. Or perhaps, to give him due credit, he had simply become accustomed to the infinitesimal accumulation of tiny changes, of smeared fingerprints and hairline scratches where none had been before. It was a war zone, after all, and there was seldom time for regular audits or inspections. As Medic depressed the plunger to dispense the fluid in the syringe into the shunt, his free hand tossed the now empty vials into the bin, followed by the transfer needle. With weary motions, he loaded the metal instruments into the autoclave, setting the sterilisation cycle, before proceeding to wash his arms clean at the sink. His foot nudged the sterilisation bin as he scrubbed, the clinking of settling glass loud in the quiet laboratory. As he strode out of the room, one hand reaching for the light switch, to join the rest of his team mates in the night’s slumber, it never occurred to him that the bin had been, perhaps, a little fuller than it should have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strange Attractors - A term in chaos theory, denoting nexi of phase space that devolve inwards.


	15. Sennit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tying of knots, the trimming of frayed ends.

As always, the hissing shimmer of decloaking reminded him of the rattling slide of snow off the eaves in the winter; the recollection was so familiar now as to be nearly devoid of emotional resonance. He had lain awake the last few weeks, thinking about the girl, unable to get her warm crooked smile out of his thoughts. He had resorted to long walks down deserted corridors until fatigue rendered sleep accessible. But despite the direction of his musings, his feet had not taken him down this hall until tonight.

Spy looked around the darkened medical laboratory, his eyes acclimatising to the steady glow of the readouts on the incubation tank. He looked for a long moment at La Poulette – no, he corrected himself, _Carol_ ; he should use the proper label – and suppressed a shudder. There was little trace of the eager sylph on which he had lavished his attentions previously; what floated in the tank was a travesty of life, thick with rippled, ribboned growths waving in the currents. It was a blessing that her face was obscured by the breathing mask, he thought – any beauty in proximity to such horror could break a man.

The weight of the metal in his gloved hands seemed heavier than normal, the thin calfskin sliding over the familiar buttons and corners. He crept around to the side of the tank, busying himself with removing the cover to the instrument panel, leaning it carefully against the wall next to his crepe-soled shoes. The wiring, once tidily hanked by colour, was a knotted jumble in the dim light, dotted with twisted cable ties and lumps of solder. He wasn’t sure what to do first. He needed to find an unobtrusive spot to attach the sapper. He adjusted its placement twice, three times, then straightened, pinching the bridge of his nose with long fingers.

It should not be this hard. He had done similar things hundreds, if not thousands of times before, under heavy fire and daily! But this was different; nobody was trying to kill him, in the heat of battle, excesses of zeal were all too common. This was calculated and deliberate. An assassination, a resolution of mistakes compounded into abomination, of crimes against God himself. He took a deep breath. No, he corrected himself. This was not murder, but mercy.

With a steady hand, he wedged the sapper into position. Before he could toggle the switch, however, pain bloomed with a meaty, metallic thunk along the side of his head, and the shadows rushed forward to pull him to the tiled floor.

***

“Amateur.” A murmur under his breath as he folded the unconscious, lanky Frenchman double and wedged him under the bed in his own room. “Lessee y’get outta that quick, ya interferin’ frog.” The sapper was tossed under the bed to join him with an efficient flick of the wrist, sliding to a stop next to one pointed shoe.

“Neatly done, eh, Ted? Didn’t even break the skin. Used the back of the wrench, like you said.” The stocky Texan grinned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him, before making his way to the medlab. The smile on his face did not budge as he moved soundlessly over the tiled floor, rubber-soled boots hardly squeaking, as he contemplated the monkey’s nest that was the spill of wiring still protruding from the side of the tank. A brief glance over the tangle told him much, the smile widening a hair, as he picked out two wires from the mass. A quick twist of the Gunslinger, and the two wires were artistically frayed, insulation rubbed away. “Stupid Frenchie was going to spoil it all. Then Medic would just yell at me to build it all again. Like I have nothing better to do than to jump when he says ‘bullfrog’. This way’s _much_ better,” he whispered to the little bear in his pocket , patting him fondly with his other hand.

“..This way, it’ll fail niiiice an’ slow. And nothin’ he c’n do’ll work,” crooned Engineer, packing the wires back into their recess, and replacing the cover panel. The hairline crack he’d placed in the sterilisation shunt tubes last week had ensured the irreversible contamination of the feed lines, and would render the tank permanently unusable inside of a month. The grey man had a point; if Medic’s latest endeavours failed spectacularly enough, the damned Kraut’s confidence would be shattered, and he would probably mope for a good long bit. Long enough for Engineer himself to actually get done some of his own projects. And, if Lady Luck was smiling, perhaps the pretend-doctor would stop roping him into his hairbrained schemes.

With a hushed chortle, Engineer dusted himself off, and headed back to his room.

***

It was a lonely night, and the moonlight spilled through the window of the medlab like a milky shawl, limning the sleeping doves on the windowsill outside in silver. They stirred slightly as another set of footsteps came to a quiet stop in front of the incubation tank.

“Ah, lass. ‘S me agin. An’ stone cold sober this time. I dinna think y’ever got tae see me straight-oop like this, in m’ proper tartan, like I promised ye. An’ sad tae say, ye nivver will. An’ ahm sorry fer tha’.” A deep sigh, and Demoman perched on a nearby laboratory stool, the scratchy woolen folds of his kilt bunched around his knees. His gaze took in the whole of her without flinching, his weathered face pinched with regret.

“Ah’m sorry ferra lotta things, lass. Ah’m sorry f’r not believin’ ye. F’r not knowin’ ye. I shoulda known, dammit. An’—an’ I should’ve been better tae ye. ‘F I c’ld, ah’d wisht ye awai, safe’n soond, nivver havin’ met us, nivver havin’ the knowin’ o’ this messed oop place an’ us crazy f—“ He choked off the whispered words thickly, knuckling at his stinging eye as he stood, fumbling at his sporran, pulling a slim metal flask from it. He sidled slowly to the access panel, wrenching it easily from the column. “Huh. Lookit tha’. ‘Twas easy.” Propping the panel against the wall, he rested his forehead against the cool surface of the tank. “An’ I’m sorry, d’y’ken? This sh’ld nivver ha’ happened, lass, “ he whispered, tears smudging the smooth glass. “Y’ w’re nivver safe ‘ere.”

With a deep breath, Demoman bent to pull a pair of wire cutters from his sporran, reached deep inside the recess, and commenced snipping at every wire he could find. Readouts flickered and died, while other indicator lights flashed red, the buzz of alarms beeping softly in the hushed lab echoed off the tiled walls. The steady hum of the pump fell silent, the glowing filtered through the tank fading to black. He stowed the cutters, and unscrewed the top of the flask, inhaling the rising fumes – single malt, from his private stash, that none but he ever saw – and spilling a mouthful across his tongue. Demoman bowed his head for a moment, the whisky burning his lips, then poured the rest of it into the panel recess as a libation, flinching at the resulting shower of sparks. “Time tae goo, lass. Time t’ fly home wi’ ye’. “

The access panel lying forgotten against the wall, the Scotsman turned crisply on his heel and walked out of the medlab, ignoring the wisps of smoke curling from the wrecked tank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sennit – Cordage or rope made by plaiting together strands of fibre or grasses. In knot terminology, refers to a knot composed of a number of lines, woven in a complex pattern.


	16. Denouement - Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fingers that pulled the strings were not omniscient. And they know it too.

It hadn’t been really worth the trouble, mused Miss Pauling, as she fumbled the lighter off the bedside table and applied herself to her menthol filter. To be fair, she thought, the sex was every bit as good as she had anticipated. She stretched lazily, relishing the masochistic aches and twinges from the weekend’s acrobatics - the bites on the back of her neck were going to bloom into bruises, for sure - secure in the knowledge that she had given just as good as she had gotten.

She exhaled, the cloud of smoke glowing faintly in the moonlight streaming through the motel window as she idly admired the long, lean length of the slumbering Australian next to her. He was deeply, bonelessly asleep, and drooling into the pillow with exhaustion. The way the moon picked out the planes and hollows of his delightfully flexible body almost hid the marks she had left; she had carefully placed them to be easily hidden, even the ones he had begged her ever so humbly for. At least this time he hadn’t wept in afterglow, not as he had during their first few trysts. She certainly had her work cut out for her to get him back and sniffing on her trail, after the interfering civilian had gotten her hooks into him. Miss Pauling was quite certain that the Sniper had never managed to consummate his infatuation with the girl, not all the way - there was no evidence on the surveillance tapes - but it had taken months of delicate work before she succeeded in his turning to her for comfort. That camper van had been so cramped..! She had never been so glad to be petite in her life.

What a mess. The Agent that Marshall, Carter, and Dark had sent was as good as promised, and every bit worth his princely sum, vanishing with the lion’s share of her Mann Co. skimmed profits for the financial quarter. But he had also done not one whisker more than contracted to, leaving her to tidy up the other fallout from the trollop’s inadvertent and unfortunate intrusion. The unwelcome surprise had been in how long it had taken her to tie off the loose ends. Her lip lifted unconsciously in a silent snarl. Her in-tray had been filling uncomfortably fast with transfer requests from the mercenaries; the Medic’s copperplate-inscribed forms cited irreconcilable differences with his coworkers, and the Soldier’s, painstakingly written in near-typeset capitals, simply suggested that the loss of the base’s Winged Victory merited investigation. It wasn’t surprising, she reflected, that the deeply flawed warrior children of her little hothouse war had projected their own wishes on the whey-faced bint.

On her last inspection visit to the base months ago, she had had to invent a story about how the scientists who had spirited the girl’s distorted remains away for disposal had given her full burial rites. The Demoman and Scout had seemed to believe it, but the Spy had refused to either speak, or to meet her gaze. The huge Russian however, had glowered wordlessly, even more taciturn than usual, conveying his deep suspicion at her involvement in the events; it only served to confirm her suspicions that he was more astute and thus more dangerous than she had previously believed. The Engineer had simply tipped his helmet like always, but with an unsettlingly knowing look of acknowledgment.

Enough with the self-pity, she decided, stubbing her cigarette out in the battered tin ashtray. It could have easily gone much, much worse. She was still in a good position, pulling the strings from the shadows behind her figurehead of a boss, playing all three sides against each other, playing God as she wished. More pies than fingers, these days. She picked at a fleck of dried blood under a manicured nail. At least this one doesn’t snore, she thought, casting a lazy, proprietary glance at the Sniper’s form. She had always preferred to watch the quiet ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, it's finally finished. 
> 
> Liberties taken with Valve's property, as well as some crowdsourced ideas.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation:
> 
> Poulette (French) - A young or adolescent chicken, a pullet. Slang term for underaged prostitute.


End file.
